


I Just Called To Say How Are You

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [13]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Case, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, romantic, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're both busy men, with work to do. They don't always have time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Called To Say How Are You

The circle of light from the desk lamp was only marginally brighter than the sunlight when he started. Jimmy sits up, rolling his shoulders, and he notices that dusk had fallen. The room is almost dark, except his textbook, notepad, and laptop. He stretches his legs forward and feels some quiet, subdued tingling in his toes.

He's been sitting up for too long. When he blinks, green circles bloom behind his eyelids. The book is only halfway through, and both the .rtf file and the real sheets of paper are covered with scrawling, lumbering sentences. He can barely follow the text anymore.

Time for a break. Time to... stand up, yawn, stretch again, dance a little when his feet start to really bring home the needles and pins. Dance and wobble his way to the kitchen, throw something together, only realize he's starving when he looks at the plate and his stomach gives a growl that could rival an angry Gibbs. He smiles at the thought.

He hasn't seen Gibbs in a week, outside of work, and work had been hectic. Not so much his part in it, which was over in the first day and a half, but everyone else's. And then he had to study. And ever since then, he's sitting with his nose in a book, learning a lot of important things, making a lot of important notes, and wishing he could just bang his head violently against his desk. Which he doesn't do, because it's dangerous with glasses on, as he well remembers his mother telling him when he was little. Never, in all his years in med and in NCIS, has he ever seen someone who was injured from banging their head on their desk with their glasses on, but he's seen a few car accidents which resulted in shards embedded in facial muscles as well as in eyeballs, and he doesn't really want to test the theory.

The plate is empty but crumbs. He gazes at it longingly and wonders about the pros and cons of a can of soup when the phone rings.

"You doing anything?"

The voice is low but light, with a hint of something dangerous in the background.

"Not really." Palmer's heart jumps, expectant. "Is the case over?"

"I got half an hour to kill," Gibbs says. He's speaking very quietly, a little on edge. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

"I got half an hour to kill," Palmer repeats mischievously.

"That so," Gibbs says, and somehow those two simple words are dark and heady and go right down Palmer's spine.

He gets up and takes the plate back to the sink, holding the phone to his ear. Anticipation runs shivers all over him. The day's tedium disappears, hazy like an old memory, and only the present moment and the phone are outlined in sharp, clear lines in his mind.

"And what are you wearing?", Gibbs asks.

Palmer gulps. "Anything you want me to," he says, returning from the kitchen.

Gibbs laughs. "I want the truth."

Palmer shrugs and looks down at himself. "Grey T-shirt, grey and blue boxers," he says, flopping back on the couch. "White socks."

"That's nice," Gibbs says, low and throaty.

Palmer reacts to the pitch, leaning back against the cushions of his narrow sofa, one hand tightening on the phone, the other sliding down his front.

"You touching yourself already?", Gibbs asks, an amused nudge with words.

"No," Palmer says. His fingers hesitate above his waistband.

"Do it," Gibbs orders, dry and hot like desert winds, and like them, the voice rubs Palmer's skin raw all over. 

He lets his hand rest on the bulge in his boxers and gasps.

"You touching it?", Gibbs asks, impatient.

"Almost," Palmer groans unthinkingly; he has his fingers curled around the hardness in his underwear, but he's not, technically, touching his own skin.

"Take it out, Jimmy," Gibbs whispers, "take it out for me and do it like I'm there."

"Fuck," Palmer says with great emotion, pushes the fabric aside and finally grasps his cock in a hot, sweaty hand.

"Yeah?", Gibbs teases, sounding pleased.

"What you do to me," Palmer moans. He's already fully hard and his fist tightens around his erection. He doesn't move it yet.

"Distracting you from your studies," Gibbs says, sounding suddenly regretful.

Palmer nearly panics." No! No, I wasn't - I was - I already finished," he says hurriedly, "for today."

"Okay, good," Gibbs retracts. "Didn't wanna..."

"And what are _you_ wearing?", Palmer tries, nearly desperate for the conversation not to end.

"A pirate's gear," Gibbs laughs.

Palmer pauses. "Not true," he finally says, but not with absolute certainty.

"Just my normal work clothes," Gibbs says, sounding almost disappointed.

"That's good enough for me," Palmer purrs.

"I know," Gibbs growls in reply. Palmer imagines him as he last saw him; jacket, polo shirt, coffee cup in hand, rushing past - no, that wasn't good. Gibbs was too distracted then, and not paying much attention to Palmer, with his bloodied gloves and the plastic cover obscuring his face.

Better think of him as he was a week ago, relaxed and in shorts in his living room with Palmer's head in his lap, Palmer reading a book and Gibbs nodding off above him.

"You with me?", that low voice again, so often amused with him, so often playful.

"Thinking about last week," Palmer says truthfully, wistfully.

"Mmm, yeah." Gibbs laughs a little. "A week's too long for you?"

"Just miss you. It," Palmer corrects hastily. "Just miss..."

"Don't try so hard, Jimmy," Gibbs says quietly.

"Sorry."

"And don't say you're sorry," Gibbs says.

"Right," Palmer mutters. "I'm...", he stops himself, "Right."

"Just tell me what you'd like," the tone was softened, offering some reprieve.

"To feel good," Palmer says honestly. He settles in against the cushions, stretching his legs forward, letting his head drop back. "Maybe not to sleep alone," he adds, feeling a chill against his shoulders.

"When I catch the guy," Gibbs says gruffly.

"I know," Palmer says. "I just said."

There's a moment of silence. If it was anyone else, Palmer knows, an automatic, uncalled-for apology would probably have been presented, placating more than truly regretful. No such thing with Gibbs.

"I have to get up early tomorrow," he finally says. "Study."

"I know," Gibbs says.

Another moment passes. Palmer is staring at the darkness of his bedroom beyond the doorframe.

"Wish I could be there right now," Gibbs says, voice tinged with almost tenderness.

"Me too," Palmer says quietly.

"Wouldn't be _your_ hand on your cock then," Gibbs says.

Palmer is thrown; his cock however seems to be very clear on the idea.

"Or maybe I'd let you do it yourself, just watch," Gibbs adds, all traces of humor gone from his voice, leaving room only for that warm, crawling sensation that touches the base of Palmer's spine. "Would you do that for me, Jimmy?"

"Yeah," Palmer blurts automatically. He'd do anything right now.

"Let me see you jack yourself off for me?", Gibbs' voice is low, soft, and caressing. Palmer moves his hand along with the words, soft, slow, caressing.

"Yes," he hisses.

"I wanna see you when you come," Gibbs whispers. "You're so pretty when you come. Pink all over."

Palmer moans, his hand starting to move faster, his tongue licking his lips quickly once, then twice, thinking of being kissed, thinking of being...

"Fuck," Gibbs says suddenly, and it's not low, it's not hot; it's too sudden, sharp, and it's disappointed, Palmer notes dazedly in the brief second before the line goes dead.

Gibbs hung up on him.

Again.

Stupid work. Stupid NCIS and stupid murderer. Palmer spends a moment wishing some very uncharitable things on the man, and not for his actual hideous crime. Then he catches himself and chides himself for it. Too selfish. Poor taste.

And still hard.

Still thinking of Gibbs standing across from him and watching him...

With a sigh, Palmer gets up, placing the phone on the table carefully. He pulls his T-shirt off, dropping it on the way to the bathroom; his boxers and socks also fall by the wayside, just outside the door. He hits the shower, carrying out a brief, perfunctory but satisfying session with himself. The memories of Gibbs taking him in the shower help bring some spice to it; he remembers the echoes off the green tiles, the coolness of them against his forehead. He came on those tiles then, against the same wall he's leaning on now, with Gibbs pushing inside him, face buried in his shoulder. He comes again, on the same spot, biting his lips, echoes muffled under the waterfall.

\--

All the lights in the apartment are off, but Palmer can see a thin shaft of light from the edge of the window, signalling an imminent sunrise. He sits bolt upright, wondering what it was that woke him.

Another knock on the door. That's what it was, someone knocking, quietly, furtively. The red digits on his clock speak of a sinfully early hour. Palmer pads to the doorway, barefoot and owlish. On the way he catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror; his hair is sticking out in funny directions on the right side of his head, and is entirely flat on the left side.

Palmer pauses by the door. No more knocks. He peers outside through the peephole.

It's almost entirely dark, but he thinks there's no one there. He opens the door anyway. On the far end of the hallway, a figure turns.

"Hello?", Palmer says, uncertainly.

"Did you just open the door without seeing who it was?", Gibbs demands, sounding alarmingly awake for the hour, and marches back to him.

"I," Palmer starts, "uh," he continues. "Um, what?", he inquires, because answering truthfully, either way, will be a mistake.

"That's dangerous, Palmer," Gibbs scolds, pushing him back and into the apartment, shutting the door behind him and bolting it.

Palmer thinks to mention that Gibbs never even locks his door, but decides wisely against it. The hour is too late for that. Or too early. He blinks at Gibbs, who moves against him, holding him, pressing their foreheads together.

The closeness is pleasant. Palmer relaxes, leaning backwards against the wall, letting Gibbs' weight rest against him.

"You gonna fall asleep here?", Gibbs murmurs.

"Hmm?", Palmer doesn't open his eyes.

"Don't you got a bed to go to?", Gibbs whispers, laughing soundlessly, and hauls Palmer away from the door and towards the bedroom.

"You came to be with me," Palmer says needlessly, almost in a dream again, when Gibbs manhandles him into the bed and starts removing his coat, then his shoes.

"Yeah, yeah," Gibbs mutters. "Go back to sleep."

Palmer does. He sleeps through a late morning, and when he wakes, he's alone in the apartment and it could all have been nothing more than a dream, except when he gets to the kitchen, his coffee jar is out of its customary shelf, sitting on the counter, with a post-it on it saying simply:

_GET BETTER COFFEE._

Palmer smiles to himself and makes a note of that on his shopping list. And then he makes a cup of coffee, sits down at his desk, and cracks open his book.


End file.
